Title: Somnolence
Author: Jo
Pairing: Lawrence Makoare/Sala Baker
Rating: PG
Summary: Sala spends a lazy afternoon.
Disclaimer: I made this entire thing up. Just a figment of my overactive imagination. Of course, it could have happened, but they didn't see fit to tell me about it.
Notes: For Kielle -- happy birthday!


Decadent of you to still be here, still be in bed at noon. Or is it even later? It's been a while since you looked at the clock.

You can think of a hundred other things you should be doing. But doing them would involve getting up. And you're feeling entirely too lazy to do that. Or perhaps it's not laziness. No, definitely not. It's simply that you like this, like lying next to his warmth as long as possible. After all, you've done it every weekend for the past three years. But you don't mind. And he certainly doesn't seem to.

Still, though, it's shameful the way you're just lolling about, wasting a perfectly good afternoon. And it is a good afternoon. You can tell. Outside, beyond the window, you can see the clouds drifting across the clear, azure sky. And the sun-stripes through the blinds...you can see those, too.

You can see how they slant across the wall and the thin blanket that only partially covers you. And you know that if you roll to your side, you'll see the sun-stripes criss-crossing dark skin as he sprawls beside you. A few minutes are lost in contemplation, picturing that, seeing sun giving way to shadow. Dark and light, repeated over and over. You like that image.

Then you roll over and see for yourself. And smile. It's everything you imagined it would be. Everything and more. Because your imagination falls far, far short of reality.

The stark bands of sunlight slice across his skin, turn it a rich, deep umber. Your eyes trace the random scars that cover his torso. Most exist from the roadwork and construction he used to do, back when you first became friends. But that one...yes, that one there, just above his collarbone.

You're more familiar with that one than you care to remember. The only real reminder that either of you have from that night almost two years ago. Your thoughts shy away from that night, away from the only real fight the two of you have ever had.

Today isn't the day to remember that night, to remember the harsh words and the following blows, all a result of too much to drink. So you move on to other, more pleasant things. Like the way the sunlight ripples across his skin as he breathes.

You love looking at him. You always have. Even now, when he's a little bulkier than he used to be, a little thicker around the waist. But you don't mind that he's going soft in the tummy. In fact, you kind of like it.

It makes him more...human, somehow. More open, vulnerable. More something. Doesn't matter, though. You still think he's breathtaking. But you're sure he wouldn't appreciate that analogy. So you content yourself with sexy as fuck, even though that one makes him laugh.

You like his laugh. Love it, in fact. It's what drew you to him in the first place. The deep, full-bellied laugh that he lets out when he's really amused. And the quiet, rumbling chuckle when the two of you share a private joke. You're exceptionally fond of that one, the way it seems to shiver through the air.

The one that you really love, though -- the one that makes your toes curl and sends a shiver up your spine -- is the low, silky, dark laugh that you only hear in bed. You know what that laugh means. You know, and it excites you faster than just about anything else in the world.

And he's making it right now as he watches you watching him. He's laughing that private laugh and watching you. And it's turning you on, just like you knew it would.

His eyes touch you, caress you, and you swear that you can feel them on your skin -- skin lighter than his, yet still warm and dark -- feel them moving over your body. It's a talent he has, you'd swear it, this ability to physically touch you with his eyes. And you love it, love that he can do this to you.

You know it won't be long before his hands are following the path his eyes are taking. Not long at all. You know he knows exactly what you like.

Brief minutes prove you right when long, blunt fingers reach out, trace your bicep. They drift, like a feather, over the muscles of your arm, down to your hand. Slipslide over each finger. Then across your hip as you lie there, watching him.

You wonder how it will be this time. Maybe fast and...no, not today. Today is going to be one of those days.

You can tell by the glimmer in those dark, heavy-lidded eyes as they flick up to meet yours that he's going to take his time with you. Slow and languid and refusing to be rushed. The rest of the afternoon is going to be a blur of lazy, sweet torment. You're going to beg and scream before he's through with you. And you welcome it.

You welcome it as long, inky hair brushes over your chest when he moves. Your skin pebbles as strands of hair drag over it, following the path of his mouth as he moves lower. You know exactly what's coming next. And it's not a big shock -- to either of you -- that you're eager for it.

You want this, want to lose yourself completely in him. And have him lose himself in you. He wants that, too. Of course he does.

He always has.


~fin~